He would submit. This would make him whole.
By the end of the day, George was exhausted. And he was freezing. Monro had utilized the ice bath twice, claiming that doubling up was necessary to make up for the loss of the iron chair. October was arriving with a chill, and despite the relatively new construction of Buckingham House, it was drafty. Reynolds had brought him a blanket, but George refused to be seen walking through the house wrapped like a baby.
Monro wanted to break him. George understood that. But surely he was allowed some pride.
He was eager to see Charlotte. She, along with his science, was what brought him joy. She was the reason he was subjecting himself to this.
He did not know how she had occupied herself that day. If his reports from before were accurate, she had most likely read a book and looked out the window.
Perhaps played with Pom Pom. He’d heard that she had finally taken to the dog.
Either way, she had certainly had a more pleasant day than he.
He’d hoped to see her after he’d eaten and had a warm bath, but they happened upon each other in the corridor outside their bedchambers. She had already dressed for dinner, wearing an elaborate gown of sumptuous burgundy. Her hair had been styled in a manner that George suspected was deceptively simple.
It looked simple to him, that was. She’d probably had to sit for an hour to achieve such pastoral perfection.
Women were mysterious creatures.
“Charlotte,” he said. He smiled. He was happy to see her, even if he was not at his best.
“George.”
He frowned. She did not sound pleased. In fact, she sounded quite displeased.
He noted the book in her hand. “Have you been reading?”
“Yes.” She held the book to her side. Brimsley immediately materialized and took it.
“Anything interesting?”
“Poetry.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
She shrugged.
The tenor of this conversation was not what he had expected. She was almost sullen. Still, he persevered. He glanced over at Brimsley, who was staring at him with thinly veiled hostility.
What the devil?
George looked at Reynolds, who was still holding the blanket. He was also looking at Brimsley. If George didn’t know better, he’d have thought the two of them were silently trying to communicate.
Did they even know each other?
He let out a sigh. He was exhausted, and he did not have the patience for palace intrigue. He returned his attention to Charlotte, trying his best to remain cheerful despite his abysmal mood. “May I inquire the author?”
“Shakespeare,” she said.
“Ah. Sonnets, then.”
“Yes.”
My God, it was like pulling teeth. He had never known her to be so uncommunicative. Not that he had known her for long. But still, this was clearly unlike her.
“Do you have a favorite?” he asked.
She stared at him. Not with anger. Just . . . without emotion.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he suggested.
No?
He tried again. “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun?”
She arched a brow and recited from memory: “When my love swears that he is made of truth, I do believe him, though I know he lies.”
That was unexpected.
George took a moment to clear his throat. “I believe you altered the pronouns. Is not Shakespeare writing of a woman in this poem?”
“I have put my own interpretation on it.”
“Charlotte,” he said, and he finally grabbed the blanket from Reynolds. Heaven only knew how long he would be in this hall bickering with her, and damn it, he was cold. “Is aught amiss?”
She smiled, all teeth and insincerity. “I am perfectly marvelous.”
That was patently untrue, but he did not have the energy to fight her. They stared at each other for a moment, and then she motioned that she would like to step around him.
“I have much to do,” she said.
“I have not seen you yet today.”
Her stance grew tense. “And whose choice was that?”
“Charlotte, you must know that I have duties as King.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. He did have royal duties. They just weren’t the reason he had been absent.
“Yes, I know all about your duties.” She gave him another false smile. “I am one of them, am I not?”
Where was this hostility coming from? He shook his head. “You are far from a duty.”
She scoffed.
He tilted his head rigidly to the side as he held his temper in check. He’d spent the day being violently screamed at. He’d been brutally submerged in an ice bath—twice—all for her.
She could not even speak to him politely.
“I plan to take my dinner in my bedchamber this evening,” George said. The thought of donning full evening dress was exhausting. And maybe her mood would soften when they were alone. “Will you join me?”
“I have plans.”
“Plans,” he repeated dully.
“I have already dressed,” she said, motioning to her exquisite attire. “I will dine formally.”
“I would rather you dined with me.”
“Brimsley,” she said sharply. “Am I expected in the dining room?”
“Er . . .” He looked frantically between King and Queen.
“Brimsley,” she said again.
“Yes, Your Majesty, I believe that you—”
“Ah, but she is Queen,” George interrupted. “She sets her own schedule, does she not?”
Brimsley swallowed reflexively. “Yes, Your Majesty. She is—”
“Brimsley,” Charlotte all but barked. “Do you or do you not work for me?”
Brimsley was now visibly sweating. “I do, Your Majesty. I serve you in all—”
“Brimsley,” George said, his voice rising in volume on the second syllable. “Who hired you?”
Brimsley’s head jerked to and fro, until he finally turned to Reynolds in desperation.
Reynolds looked at his feet.
“I was hired by the household, Your Majesty,” Brimsley finally said to George.
“Which is headed by . . . ?”
“You, Your Majesty.”
“Traitor,” Charlotte hissed.
“Your Majesty,” Brimsley pleaded.
“Never mind,” George said, his patience gone. “Do what you will, Charlotte. My time is too valuable to stand here and argue with you.”
He stepped to the left, trying to get around her, but there were four people in the hall, and her bloody skirts blocked the way.
He cursed under his breath.
She gasped. “What was that?”
“Your skirts are too damned wide,” he ground out.
She drew back. Really. That was what offended her?
“I will have you know I am the height of fashion,” she snipped.
“I am sure you are.”
“I set the fashion.”
“How lovely for you. Now if you will excuse me . . .” He pushed past her skirt, and maybe he was as malevolent a person as Doctor Monro kept insisting because he did take a bit of glee in the fact that she stumbled.
“Perhaps you are a duty to me!” she burst out.
He turned slowly to look at her. “Is that so?”
Her chin jutted out.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine.”
But just then, Reynolds stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” he said. His back was to the Queen, so she could not see when he looked pointedly at George’s hands.
They had started to shake.
“Good night, Charlotte,” George said. “Enjoy your meal.”